“Christ,” Mom said. She stood from the couch. “I was starting to think he’d never go to bed.”

“What was he yakking about?”

Mom went to the sink and turned off the water. “I don’t know—I think something’s wrong with him. He’s been taking Ambien for sleep, which would explain his sleepwalking.”

She went into the living room and checked how much wine Frick had drunk. She poured herself a cup and sipped it. In the kitchen, she looked at the glass of wine and then she dumped it down the sink. She washed a few plates and bowls, and the ones that were extremely dirty, food stuck like cooled lava, she left in hot soapy water.

Mom dropped a fork.

“Oh,” she said, and she went on to say the old saying about strangers showing up.

“Hopefully it’s Publishers Clearing House who shows up with a big fat check,” I said, even though that wasn’t the first thing that came to mind. I thought of the woman on the bus, how still she was, how intently she looked ahead for the whole ride.

Mom picked up the fork. “With our luck they’d come here by mistake. Either that or it’d be the repo man coming for the car.”

“Is the car payment late?”

Mom let out a real sigh. “I shouldn’t have said that. You don’t need to know about that shit. I get my check in a few days anyways.”

In the kitchen chair, I sprawled out and stretched my legs.

“We have to get you some new pants,” Mom said. “You’re growing right out of those.”

“They got another year,” I said.

“Another year will be here before you know it.”

Mom dried her hands, and before she could wipe down the counter I told her no, said that I’d do it.

“If you insist,” she said. “Give me baasus—I’m going to bed.”

We said good night, and when she made it to her bedroom door she turned around and spoke to me. “Have you seen Paige?”

I told her no.

The house was quiet as I wiped down the counters. The floor creaked under my feet and the clock ticked. It was late. I covered the dishes that Mom left exposed. Watching myself in the reflection of the TV as I walked closer, I grew larger—my body, my ill-fitting pants, and the kitchen behind me disappeared as I flicked off the lamp.

. . .